


I Want Your Dreams First

by honey_wheeler



Series: Bedroom Hymns [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 18:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11042127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: “Gods,” he’d muttered, attempting to turn the page as if to protect her from seeing it. As if she hadn’t poured over every page before on her own. It was his very missishness that made her turn back to the page, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to tease him.“Jon, please, you were in the Night’s Watch. Do you truly expect me to believe you’re too delicate for such things? Perhaps you even kept warm on the long cold nights in such a way yourself, who is to say!”





	I Want Your Dreams First

It’s certainly the farthest they’ve traveled afield, so to speak. The things they’ve done before have been mostly creative variations on things they already do, but this... Well, this is much more creative.

They’d been looking at the book together this time, paging through the illustrations with alternating shock, amusement, and giddy arousal, Jon blushing more often than not. Nothing made him blusher brighter or longer than the page Sansa had often lingered on with more curiosity than actual interest, a picture in lurid color of a man buggering a woman as she balanced on all fours with her mouth open in a silent howl that seemed as likely to be one of pain as of pleasure to Sansa.

“Gods,” he’d muttered, attempting to turn the page as if to protect her from seeing it. As if she hadn’t poured over every page before on her own. It was his very missishness that made her turn back to the page, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to tease him.

“Jon, please, you were in the Night’s Watch. Do you truly expect me to believe you’re too delicate for such things? Perhaps you even kept warm on the long cold nights in such a way yourself, who is to say!”

He’d been aghast, appalled, amused despite himself. Even intrigued, perhaps, the way she was, in a way she hadn’t been before when she was only looking at a picture. As a picture, it aroused little interest. But with Jon…

All of which is how they’ve come to lie side by side on their bed, clothing discarded, lips smudged and swollen from kissing. Sansa’s body throbs from one crisis already and idly considers another with the gentle movements of Jon’s fingers between her thighs. “You’ll need to be ready,” he’d told her before, and if this is readiness, Sansa is in favor. But now she wonders what comes next. Jon seems as unsure of how to even begin as she does, the nerves written on his face surely a mirror of Sansa’s own. She can’t remember the last time she felt so tentative with him, so off-balance. There’s something appealing about it. Something new and fresh, reminding her of the first time she’d lain with him and felt what it meant to be given pleasure.

“Shall I…” she begins, and then falters, licking her lips nervously, a gesture Jon follows with his eyes. “The illustration showed her on her knees. Is that…?”

“If you’d like,” he answers. She giggles.

“I can’t imagine any other way. Though it seems so primitive. And rather hard on the knees.”

Jon’s eyes darken. “There’s another way,” he says. “May I?”

He does not follow the words with any instructions, just the soft pressure of his hand on her bare hip, and Sansa shivers at the thought of putting herself completely in his hands to guide as he wishes. With another man it would be terrifying, unthinkable. With Jon, it’s unspeakably arousing.

He waits for her chin to dip in silent assent, then he sits up and rolls her to her belly with gently urgent hands. Sansa lies there, quivering, the softness of the furs decadent against her skin from chin to toes. For a moment, he only looks at her, ghosts his fingers down the faint ladder of her ribs and over the swell of her bum.

“Where do you keep your perfumed oils?” His voice is rubbed raw, so deep and graveled that it takes her a moment to focus on his words. She points with a suddenly trembling hand at her chest of drawers.

He’s lovely to watch, walking nude across the floor, his skin touched only by firelight. He is a well-made man, her Jon, even when she clears the love from her eyes and attempts to look at him dispassionately. He pulls the small, stoppered vials from the top drawer and looks back over his shoulder at her.

“Would you rather the rose or the lilac or the lavender?” he asks.

“Which do you like best?”

His smile shows in profile; she imagines it’s his crooked smile, the one where only half his mouth kicks upward. “I like all of them on you,” he says.

“Lilac, then. Just come back to bed.” Come back to bed and touch me, she thinks. Show me. Show me everything. But she remains quiet, wanting his lead, wanting to submit in a way she rarely does.

She loses sight of him as he climbs atop the bed past her hips, unable to crane her neck far enough to see him as she tries to remain still. She expects that he’ll settle between her legs; there’s not a thing they’ve done together so far that hasn’t ended with him there in one fashion or another. It’s more than a small surprise when he straddles the back of her thighs, keeping them tucked close together. His cock is a hard length against her, and for a moment she wonders if he intends to take her as the illustration showed with no preamble.

“Jon?”

He doesn’t answer, and after a moment, the scent of lilac strikes her nose. There’s a soft, papery sound – Jon warming the oil between his hands, she realizes – and then he’s moving his hands in long, firm strokes down her back and over her hips. Once more, it’s not what she expected. It seems Jon has ideas of his own outside any book tonight.

Eased by the oil, his hands continue to move over her, circling wider and lower with each pass, until his thumbs are running along the crease between her thighs and arse and then up the cleft of her bottom in a caress that’s surprisingly pleasant. One thumb comes back to circle and then push, and Sansa’s torn between gasping and giggling at the unfamiliar sensation.

“Alright?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sansa sighs, wiggling back against him and smiling when he hisses. “It’s just odd.”

Jon’s hand stills immediately. “We don’t have to,” he says, the dear man. “We can do whatever you like.” Sansa cranes her head around enough to catch his eye. 

“Turning craven on me?” she asks. His laugh is little more than an exhaled breath, but his thumb resumes his movement. Satisfied, she turns her cheek back to the furs and relaxes into his touch, fascinated at the slow process he takes in readying her, aided by the oil and by the wetness he gathers on his fingers from her cunt. It seems she was not far off in her assessment of the Night’s Watch; someday she’ll ask just how he knows to do all of this.

When she feels his knuckles gently pushing into the cleft of her bum, and then the head of his cock against her, she thinks it will finally begin, but she’s surprised once more to feel his cock push easily into her cunt. She laughs even as she clenches around him in pleasure.

“I hate to tell you,” she says, “but I think your aim is off.”

He rewards her cheek with a light slap on her arse, another surprise. “Such impudence is how I’m repaid for my care in preparing you,” he grumbles with mock indignation. Then his tone grows gentler, more serious. “This will help.”

Sansa doesn’t object. It feels sinfully delicious, lying so bonelessly, not even needing to spread her legs to feel her husband moving inside her. She wishes she could see the picture they make; just imagining it adds to her pleasure, thinking of the way he must look with his knees spread and bracketing her hips, his knuckles braced on the furs at her sides as he works his hips and moves inside her prone body. If it wouldn’t make her jealous beyond the imagining, she’d almost wish to see him make love to another woman in just this manner, so she could more fully appreciate his grace and skill.

She’s pitched right to the edge of bliss when he slips out of her and adjusts his position, slowly, so slowly guiding his wetted cock inside her arse as he whispers into her ear that she’s safe. If his fingers inside her were unfamiliar, this is downright foreign, but it does not feel bad or painful. Merely strange and full and somehow unexpected, though she not only knew just what he would do, she’d asked for it.

“Sansa?” he asks, his hips against her bum, one hand snaked beneath her to just barely touch the knot of nerves between her legs.

“Mmm,” she sighs, nodding, even daring to push back against him a bit. On its own, it’s little more than a strange sensation, but the knowledge that it’s Jon, that she does this with her own Jon, turns it to something more like pleasure.

Then his fingers begin to move under her and it _is_ pleasure, one that has her coming in sharp jerks and twitches that she feels to her toes.

“Gods,” Jon groans, rearing back and moving his hips in a few shallow strokes. His cock slips free and he rubs it along the cleft of her arse helplessly, his crisis painting her hips and back with hot, wet spurts. Rarely does he lose control in such a way, either coming inside her or catching his spend neatly with the furs. There’s a savage pride in making him lose himself like this, and Sansa rocks back against him until he falls forward to lie at her side, one hand on her back, one leg still thrown across her thighs.

“Good?” she asks. It’s not a coy question, nor a flirtation. If this is something Jon truly enjoys, perhaps she could be coaxed to do it more often. He opens his eyes and meets her gaze. Sansa notes with pride that he looks hazy, nearly dazed.

“Good,” he agrees, touching her cheek with delicate reverence, “but I’d rather be in your cunt.” Perhaps seeing the confusion in her eyes – did he not just spend all over her back like a green boy? – he frowns and seems to search for the proper words. 

“I would do anything you wished, Sansa,” he says. “That you want me to is what makes it good.” 

It’s an absurd thing, to go all sniffly and sentimental when Jon’s just finished buggering her up the arse, but Sansa can’t help it. For all that their adventures with the book are something done for fun, there’s something more to it too, something Sansa’s only now seeing as vital.

She smiles to allay the concern on Jon’s face at her maudlin teariness, and wriggles herself nearer to him. “Then perhaps we’ll save this one for special occasions,” she says. Jon laughs and pulls her close, setting his smiling mouth against hers in something short of a true kiss.

“Agreed,” he says, lips moving against hers, still smiling, and Sansa smiles back against him until she falls asleep.


End file.
